


untitled: an essay by han jisung

by oi_felix



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, As i update, Bittersweet Ending, Colorblind Character, Fear, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Found Family, Han Jisung | Han-centric, Kinda, M/M, Magical Elements, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Han Jisung | Han, POV Second Person, Past Child Abuse, Pet Names, Platonic Relationships, Unrequited Love, a little red, aro character, black & white - Freeform, but it's mentioned A LOT, minsung season | colorful autumn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27272176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oi_felix/pseuds/oi_felix
Summary: han jisung is an untitled piece of art; unfinished.or, jisung writes an essay for his photography class about his life in monochrome.
Relationships: Bang Chan & Han Jisung | Han, Han Jisung | Han & Seo Changbin, Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21
Collections: MINSUNG SEASON: Colourful Autumn 2020





	untitled: an essay by han jisung

**Author's Note:**

> this is for [@minsungseason](https://twitter.com/minsungseason)
> 
> color inspiration/theme for this is black&white (with red as a minor theme)
> 
> this story doesn't end happy, so just be warned! the child abuse is sort of explicit. honestly, i would just steer clear and not take any chances. would rather have you guys safe :)
> 
> lowercase intended

October 23rd, 2020

Han Jisung - Photography III

**untitled: an essay by han jisung**

there are some things that have no explanation. for example, you cannot explain why you take photography only to have the world mock you in its black and white glory, you cannot explain how you ended up here, writing this unstructured essay, in the first place, and you most certainly can’t explain why lee minho makes your heart flutter.

red is your favorite color. you do not know why, for you have never really seen red. you just like the way it sounds on your tongue, you like the way its shade of grey is just a little more vibrant than the rest, you like the way it means love, something so far yet so near. you’ve been told apples are red. strawberries are red. firetrucks are red. blood is red, but all you see is grey as it drips down your arm. 

the first time you meet lee minho, he’s talking with seo changbin, a junior majoring in music production. at first, you’re jealous; talking with seo changbin is everyone’s dream. he’s selective with who he interacts with, usually it’s just lee felix, an australian in jisung’s grade, and bang chan.

changbin glances at you, the same inscrutable expression on his face. you let your eyes drop away from his, gulping in shame. who were you? and to think you could ever imagine talking to seo changbin. you weren’t worth anything. 

minho looks at you next, eyes training up and down your body in a way that made you squirm. tugging your hoodie around your body tightly, you wait for him to say something, anything. you wait for him to yell, to scowl and scoff; you wait for him to roll his eyes, give you some form of recognition. yet, you are left with an unsatisfactory churning in your stomach as his eyes drip with pity and he turns away again.

you then realize you are no more than a pity case. you are the boy who cannot see color, the one who misses out on everything. but how can you miss out if all you’ve ever known was the black and white monochrome world and the longing of red?

you meet seo changbin again, this time lee minho is not with him. the elder walks down the hallway with his hood pulled up, tattoos snaking up his neck. you think that maybe, just maybe you could say hello, but the moment passes when felix comes up, pressing a kiss to his cheek and wrapping his arms around changbin’s neck. you don’t want to ruin their moment, so you walk away as the boy who sees in black and white, the boy who can’t be loved.

bang chan is a unique one. he doesn’t look at you with pity in his eyes, he doesn't see you in black and white, even though you do. he watches you from afar, smiling and waving like the kind person he is. you don’t know whether it means something or you’re just another kid in the hallways. two weeks later, it means something.

“jisung?” you look up. you haven’t heard your name in a while, not like that, not with kindness soaking the word instead of usual disgust. “jisung, can you hear me?” 

_I’m colorblind, not deaf_ , you wanted to yell, but you don’t because this is the first time someone has talked to you. you don’t because you’re not a brat and your mother raised you right. you don’t because if you scare him off, you’re alone again and that’s never something you want. being alone means the walls closing in and the air gets sucked out of your lungs and the room starts swaying and your hands start shaking and you start sweating and there’s no one there to help you when black dots start to cover your vision and-

warm arms wrap around you. you tense, but the soft words and comforting hands in your hair make you relax. maybe it’s not the best thing to let your guard down so easily, but you can’t stop yourself from leaning into him, silky grey curls tickling your cheek from where you hid in his neck. he holds your hand and takes you with him. your head is down but you can see him look back, worry in his eyes.

he pushes the door open to his studio and you should be excited and honored, this was the studio of _the_ bang chan, but all you can think of is how annoyed the elder must be, how irritated it must be to drag around a colorblind kid who can’t seem to stop panicking about nothing. 

yet, you still hear it again. “jisung?” you look up. your eyes are glossed over but you don’t care, all sense of dignity you had was long gone after you broke down in his arms.

“yes, chan-ssi?” your voice sounds broken and unused, coming out as no more than a quiet whisper. your eyes focus on the wall instead of the senior sitting in front of you. you’ve overheard people talk of it’s ugly but special green color. you try to find it but it remains a light grey. you sigh.

“jisung, do you want to help me with a project?” your eyes meet his hesitantly, brows furrowed in confusion. why would bang chan want you?

“what?” another crack. you wince but keep your eyes on him. he smiles softly at you and for a second you are bewildered. no one has smiled at you like that. what does it mean? when your father smiles at you it sends shivers down your spine, but when this man, who you’ve never talked to before, someone who’s barely looked your way smiles at you, you can’t help but feel warmth bloom in your stomach. you second guess yourself, thinking it’s another anxiety attack coming, but you’re pleasantly surprised when no, you feel safe and it does not come.

“jisung, i want you to help me.” your hands start to shake, out of fear or anticipation, you don’t know. 

“chan-ssi-”

“hyung,” he interrupts. you take a breath. 

“ _hyung_ , i can’t.”

“why not?”

“because i’m colorblind,” you try to explain.

“jisung, you don’t need to see color to make music.” chan rolls his chair closer to the armchair jisung is sitting on. it looks black, but jisung isn’t sure if it really is. 

“no, i mean, i’m _the_ colorblind kid.”

“i know you’re colorblind, jisung.”

“then why do you still want me?” he whispers.

“because you’re worth wanting.”

chan’s studio became a haven for you. countless hours were spent sitting on his chairs, scribbling away in the notebook he had given you. he said it was red because red means love and chan does love you. you appreciate the gesture, but it leaves a bitter feeling in your stomach when all you see is grey.

it doesn’t stop you from using it though. you didn’t get many gifts growing up, so you took extra special care of this one, making sure none of the pages were torn or bent. only your best lyrics deserved to be in that book.

chan sighed, running a hand through his curls. you perk up, you’re pen halting. he turns towards you with a disappointing smile. for a second, you think it’s aimed at you, but when he beckons you over and pulls you into his lap, you understand it’s the track and not you. the relief that fills you is unsurprising. you would never want chan to be disappointed at you.

“it’s not working, sungie. what do i do?” he whined, his lips tickling your neck. with eyes trained on the computer in front of you, you begin to adjust a few things while chan plays with your hair.

“you know you make me feel safe?” chan whispers, tightening his hold around your waist. you freeze.

“how?” 

“when you’re with me, i know you’re safe so i feel safe.” you can’t help the smile that makes its way onto your face. you fall back into his chest, hearing the laugh he lets out as you curl up in his lap. you hadn’t told chan explicitly what was happening at home, but he wasn’t stupid. he didn’t say anything about it, however, you saw the small changes, like how he held you tighter, walked you home from school, and always applied ointment to the occasional bruise. 

“you make me feel safe too.” he grins.

“good. i’ll always be here for you, sungie. okay?” you smile, hugging him tighter. 

“okay.”

things at home eventually got worse. with the death of your father, you would think it could only go up from there, but boy, you were wrong. the bruises stopped, but the yelling didn’t. the bags under your eyes became darker; hoodies were pulled over your head to hide the pink imprint of her hand on your cheek, your bloodshot eyes from standing outside in the rain as a punishment, the tiny scratches her nails left on your neck, and more. 

with her, it was always your fault. you wash the dishes: “you fucking useless child you can’t even wash the dishes,” and a slap acorss the face in return. you finish your homework early: “you’re so concerned with school. what about me?! what about your poor mother who was left with a useless, broken, child like yourself?” and a shove to the floor. you fold the clothes and do the laundry: “my useless child, what do i do with you? you can’t even tell red from blue?!” and a hand around your throat. 

apparently, the neighbors worried about the yells and crashed coming from your apartment. people came to check if everything was okay. you weren’t really paying attention. they were called the child protection service. you had only heard of them on tv, when the reporter was talking about domestic abuse cases. the word kept nagging you. _abuse, abuse, abuse._ was it that? or was it simply that you were getting what you deserved for being a useless child?

the people left after ten minutes, they didn’t see a reason to stay long after mother had convinced them everything was alright. you wanted to scream, to spill everything that had happened, you wanted someone to know about what your father had done, even if he wasn’t alive to face the repercussions. but what if you were wrong? what if you were twisting things out of control, inevitably spiraling into your own victim complex?

you kept shut. the door slammed closed. your mother looked at you and, for the first time, you saw anger in her eyes instead of disappointment and pity. the same anger in your father’s eyes.

your legs buckled, knees hitting the wooden floor of your apartment as your arms flew up, covering your face to hide the tears. hearing the footsteps of your mother get closer, you shrink away, back hitting the wall. she grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, nails digging into your skull. you look up at her grey face with teary eyes. the rising and falling of your chest freezes, the lack of air going to your head. your vision gets blurry and the room starts to spin, shades of black and white merging into an ugly grey.

the world stops spinning. her grip softens, eyes watching you panic, hands clutching at your chest. she kneels down, shushing your cries, a pale hand on your cheek. and despite everything, you lean into her touch. 

“channie hyung?” it’s the first time you’ve spoken without being spoken to. the underlying fear of annoying your hyung helped keep your mouth shut for most of the time, however, you got more comfortable around chan. you might even call him a friend.

“yeah, sung? what’s up?” he asked, pushing his chair away from the desk to face you.

“if black is the absence of color, then what is white?” chan tilted his head, brows furrowing in concentration.

“i think white is the mix of all colors, at least with light and stuff.” you hummed in acknowledgment, the pen shaking up and down between your fingers. you open your mouth to say something but close it once again. the question sounds stupid in your head so there’s no doubt it’ll sound stupid aloud. but chan is chan and the bright smile he’s sending you makes you give in much easier than you would admit, so you take a breath and speak.

“if i can see white, and white is all the colors, why can’t i see red or green or blue or orange or purple?” chan sucked in a breath, a sad smile gracing his lips. he beckoned you over and you tentatively settled sideways in his lap. he liked having you close, you had learned. 

“i don’t know, jisung, i really don’t know,” he sighed. you shrugged carelessly, fighting the pressure behind your eyes that begged to be released. you clenched your jaw and took a breath, remembering that yes, you did have to breathe to stay alive. tucking yourself into chan’s chest, you relaxed into his hold, the sound of his keyboard filling the otherwise silent atmosphere. 

your eyelids feel heavy and the warmth exuding from chan slowly lulls you into a sense of security; you feel safe.

“sleep, sungie; you need it,” chan whispers into your ear, softly, as if he was afraid of scaring you away, he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, smiling when you hummed contently. you lay there, ear on his chest hearing the _thump thump thump_ of chan’s heart beneath you. in your drowsy haze, you barely register the sound of the studio door opening.

  
“what the hell is _he_ doing here?”

**Author's Note:**

> i live for platonic chansung and platonic chansung only
> 
> eventually i'll make it all one long chapter but for now it'll be split cause i'm not done with the ending!
> 
> twitter: [@oi_felix](https://twitter.com/oi_felix)  
> cc: [oi_felix](https://curiouscat.me/oi_felix)
> 
> the main goal of writing in second person is to make the reader forget it's second person, so let me know if you forgot! :)


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